


Oblivion

by halfdutch3



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7574665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdutch3/pseuds/halfdutch3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is captured by Superman. Based on this teaser trailer: https://youtu.be/x177jhcMSqg</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to zelda_zee for the beta!

He can't get his hands loose. He can hear the alien approaching and try as he might, he can't get free of these chains. He's trapped.  
  
Superman lands with a thud at the end of the corridor, dirt swirling around him. Bruce is choking on it. The alien's minions bow and Bruce goes cold. Superman walks slowly towards him, the shadows exaggerating the harshly drawn lines of his too-chiseled face.  
  
The alien stands in front of him for what seems like an agonizingly long time, but is probably only seconds. And then he reaches out and tears the cowl from Bruce's head.  
  
Instead of reacting to the face under the mask – _maybe he already knew_ \-- the alien just stares at the mask. And then he tosses it aside, as if he's just unmade everything about Bruce with a simple gesture.  
  
But that's not where this ends. Bruce braces for what comes next, even though he doesn't know what it will be. A punch from the alien could kill him. They both know that.  
  
An odd warmth spreads through Bruce's body as Superman looks him over. His enemy next strips away the scarf around Bruce's neck. His custom-made vest is stronger than Kevlar, but the alien rips through it like it was tissue paper, leaving his chest bare. It would be nothing for this brute to rip through his rib cage just as easily, tear out his heart. His heart, which is beating so hard now, he's sure the alien can see it, if he can't see right through him already. He's not sure just where this monster's powers end. He'd warned Bruce off before, shown him “mercy.” Is this just another jolt to scare him, to shame him, to send him home with his tail between his legs?  
  
It's when the alien unbuckles Bruce's belt that he begins to realize what he's got in mind; what kind of shame his enemy has in store for him. He won't say “No” out loud, won't dignify this defeat with the weakness of words. He keeps telling himself he's wrong, that's _not_ what's happening, even as his pants and boxers are yanked down and his trench coat is torn from him.  
  
He's wearing nothing but his gloves – his hands still trapped in these fucking chains – and now the alien is just staring at him again. _He's enjoying this_ , Bruce realizes. He thinks again that maybe this is as far as Superman will go. It's humiliating enough. _It's enough_ , he wants to say, but he doesn't. He doesn't say a word, just grits his teeth as the alien runs his hand over Bruce's chest. There's a flicker of uncertainty in his captor's eyes, or maybe Bruce imagines it.  
  
He closes his own eyes as the hand – with a surprisingly gentle touch – travels down his stomach, down his thighs. Christ, he can't help himself, he's getting hard now. He wills himself not to respond to the alien touch, but his body isn't listening to him. He can hear his own ragged breathing, far too loud, and now he just wants this fucker to do whatever he's going to and get it over with. He says that out loud, actually. He didn't mean to. He's met with a smile, a grim smile that makes him want to throw up.  
  
 _It's okay_ , Bruce tells himself as his captor walks behind him, as that alien hand trails down his back, pauses on his hip. _It's okay, it's nothing_. This is nothing.  
  
He's never given much thought to how aliens have sex – even aliens who look perfectly human – but now he's pretty sure it's exactly the same as humans. There's some fumbling of clothes and then there's something cold and wet on his ass. He tells himself to relax, because bracing his body against this – as every fiber in his being tells him to do – will only make it worse. Except the alien is going to tear him apart. He's going to fucking kill him. An involuntary, miserable little laugh escapes him: he's going to fuck him to death.  
  
He feels breath on the back of his neck and then – _Oh Christ -- He's_ inside him. It's a shock, how much it hurts. _Oh God, it hurts._  
  
His head falls back and he feels hands cradling him, running through his hair, and everything stops for an agonizing second.  
  
The hands move to his hips, holding him firmly in place, as if moving even an inch were possible. It's not.  
  
And then _He_ starts up again and there's just blinding pain. But he knows pain. _It's nothing. It's nothing._ And somehow, maybe because of those words, the pain is less. The warmth he first felt at the alien's touch spreads through him now, shooting through his whole body. It's so close to pain he doesn't recognize it as pleasure at first. With a sharp intake of breath, he realizes he's hard again, that – _fuck_ – this isn't pain at all. Realizing that he's okay, that Bruce is melting into him, _He_ begins to thrust harder.  
  
They're both breathing fast, and in the white-hot haze of being nearly fucked into oblivion Bruce thinks that – in a matter of minutes – his enemy will be at his weakest. That's the time to act, to fight, to escape... and then comes another shattering thrust and the thought vanishes, disappearing in an explosion of heat and wetness. The last thing he's aware of is teeth digging into his neck and then he's out.  
  
It takes a moment before he comes back to himself. He's still hanging from the ceiling, shackled, naked and trembling. If he weren't being held up by the chains, he'd probably have fallen to the floor by now. His legs are jelly. He feels like he's floating. He isn't sure if he came when the alien did, but every inch of his body is still throbbing. He's not sure if he's hurt or how badly.  
  
He opens his eyes at last and the alien, fully clothed in those ridiculous tights as if nothing has happened, is staring at him. And then he does the strangest thing of all. He kneels at Bruce's feet, like his minions – who are thankfully nowhere around now – did earlier to their God.  
  
Superman looks up at Bruce and the sharpness, the shocking nakedness of his gaze, goes straight to his cock. He can't help it. The alien is caressing him with those brutal hands and then – Oh God – he takes Bruce in his mouth and Bruce's knees completely give out. _He's never felt, never, never_ … and just as words fail Bruce completely, as his body threatens to collapse, the alien braces Bruce's knees on his shoulders and stands up. The alien stares straight into his eyes as he rocks Bruce's body into him, again and again, his mouth enveloping him in fierce, wet warmth. Bruce wants to beg him to stop, he wants to say something, but he can only groan with the bitter defeat of having been broken completely as he comes, helplessly, heart-stoppingly, into his enemy's mouth.  
  
His whole body is limp and sore and there's an odd buzzing noise in his ears.  
  
He's being offered something to drink and there's no resisting that either. It strangely metallic, whatever it is and he can't help gagging on it. Almost immediately, the throbbing in his head lessens and he feels himself floating away from his body.  
  
He realizes his hands are free now, although his arms are useless at his side. He's being carried like a rag doll up a flight of stairs. His father's voice echoes in his head. _Why do we fall? So we can learn to pick ourselves up_. He tries to count the steps, to map the layout in his head, but he doesn't have anything left in him but to take in the next breath and then the next.  
  
He's dimly aware of being placed in a tub, of warm water washing over him. _Why is he so fucking weak?_ He tries to stand at one point, but he's too dizzy. And then he's being laid down on a soft bed. The small part of his brain that's still working is screaming at him to get up, that this is his chance, but he does nothing. The bed shifts and the alien – now fully naked too – presses up against him. Skin to skin, cradled in the alien's arms, he drifts off. His last thought is that he can't remember when he felt so safe.  
  
  
Bruce wakes with a start, his heart racing. He's at home, in his own bed, by himself. He's fine. None of that happened, he tells himself. Just a fucking dream. He sits up, looks around the room. He's embarrassingly, achingly hard, but he refuses to jerk off, to relive the blasphemous fantasy that his subconscious conjured up.  
  
He forces himself to take the coldest, longest shower of his life. He scrubs himself until his skin is red. He feels dirty, inside and out.  
  
He can't remember the last time a dream felt so real. He checks his neck in the mirror. There's no bite mark. Just faded bruises from his last actual run-in with the alien. Nothing else.  
  
 _What the fuck?_ he asks his reflection. He berates his dream self for being such a pussy, such a weakling. Alfred – not that he's going to admit any of this to Alfred – would tell him he's become too obsessed with Superman, and he's right. Why else would he have such a twisted, fucked-up dream? Being _raped_ by Superman. And then feeling overwhelmingly _safe_? That's almost the most disturbing part of the nightmare.  
  
He vaguely recalls there were two men tied up next to him at one point. So he was some kind of Christ symbol? And that was his crucifixion? He tries to figure out if his father factors in, and then just orders himself to forget the whole thing. _Just a damn dream_.  
  
He throws himself into the day's workout until every muscle is screaming at him.  
He calls up Carole, the leggiest, most beautiful blonde he knows. After a few drinks, he's fucking her up against the wall in his bedroom. He holds her arms over her head, clasping both her wrists tight together with one hand. She moans, “Bruce! Yes, oh my God, Yes,” – he loves that she's so vocal – but suddenly she’s telling him he's being too rough, so he eases up, but she cries out suddenly, “Bruce! You bit me?!I have a shoot tomorrow!” She lets him come inside her, but she's not happy about it and insists he drive her home right away, still complaining about the bite. He apologizes over and over.  
  
She slams the door to his BMW and he just drives, not really paying attention to where he's going. He’s too busy telling himself he didn't need to do that, to try to wipe out that goddamn dream. Not that it worked. In a twisted way, the dream feels even more real now.  
  
He’s still telling himself how fucked-up it all is when he stops to check his surroundings. He spots a convenience store and, although he hasn't smoked in years, gets an intense craving for a cigarette. He parks and as he heads for the entrance he can't help but notice the pretty young men leaning up against the wall. They size him up and he sees himself as they see him: a rich-looking guy in an expensive car. He buys a pack of Camels and a lighter and lights up the second he's outside.  
  
One of the boys – taller than the others, with dark hair and eyes – walks over towards him and asks for a light. They stand there, both dragging on their smokes for a minute and then he starts walking back towards his car. The kid follows.  
  
“Want some company?” the kid asks. He can't be more than 18.  
  
“No, thanks,” Bruce says firmly, but the kid keeps following.  
  
“Sure you do,” the boy says. He looks Bruce up and down, as if he can read the dirty things that went on in his mind last night. “Fifty dollars and I can make you come so hard,” the kid promises.  
  
The image of Superman, on his knees, with Bruce's cock in his mouth floods his mind and he thinks how easy it would be to let this kid blow him. He suddenly wants it, wants this boy on his knees before him.  
  
He reaches for his wallet. “Fifty dollars?” The boy nods, with a grin.  
  
“Okay,” Bruce says as he takes out a fifty. He's really looking at him now, noting the bruise on the boy's cheek, the too-thin frame, the too-worn jeans. Especially at the knees. He hands the boy the money. “Here. I don't want anything. Just take it.&rdquo  
  
The kid takes the bill, still staring at Bruce. “Mister, I can...”  
  
“Don't,” Bruce says. He thinks for a second he should have this kid on his knees, that that's just how tonight needs to end. That he can shower this beautiful boy with money and take him back to the house and fuck him and do whatever he wants with him. He badly wants to prove to himself how powerful he is at this moment, how that dream meant nothing, and yet isn't that fucking nightmare why he's even talking to this boy at all?  
  
He fishes in his wallet for another fifty and hands it to the kid, who pockets it with a wary smile, as if there's still some catch.  
  
“What's your name?” he asks.  
  
“Rob,” the boy answers, adding quickly. “I'm here most nights if you're around.” As if maybe Bruce just put some kind of down payment on him.  
  
“Okay,” Bruce nods and gets in his car. The kid’s still staring at him as he looks in the rear-view mirror. He has no idea if the kid knows who he is. He hopes to God he doesn’t.  
  
Bruce catches a glance of himself in the mirror. He’s unshaven and pale. He’s a mess. Maybe the kid didn’t recognize him. It was a mistake to call anyone, to go out at all tonight. He’s tired. He just needs a good night’s sleep.  
  
When he gets home he, triple checks the doors and windows for some stupid reason. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and stays up watching the news and then the late-late news.  
  
It’s not because he’s hoping for a glimpse of _Him_. He doesn’t want to sleep. Not just yet.


End file.
